Down to Nowhere
by CaptainMihnea
Summary: "My name is Maura Isles. The first thing you should know about me is that I kill people for money." AU. Maura's POV. My take on what would have happened if Maura had ended up taking after Paddy Doyle, and being part of the Irish mob. Just to warn - it's pretty dark, and I can't promise a happy ending. BUT. There will be plot and Rizzles and other good shit.


_My name is Maura Isles. _

_The first thing you should know about me is that I kill people for money._

_Not exactly how I intended to spend my life, but these things happen. My adoptive parents had big plans for me. I was a valedictorian. I was headed to medical school. I was going to really be someone. _

_That was until I met Patrick Doyle. My father. When you see him in the news, they never mention his charm, or how warm his smile can be. They only ever focus on his crimes. People never understood why I got so close to him. An innocent girl from a wealthy family? They don't know him. And they sure as hell don't know me._

_Nobody knows me. Not my mother – biological or otherwise. Not anyone else in the business. They just see me as the boss's daughter, or as that weird girl the Doyles seem to give free reign to. The favoured scion of the Irish mob. Shit, not even Paddy knows me._

_He thinks I do what I do for him. He couldn't be more wrong._

_I remember the first time vividly. That first kill. It's not exactly the kind of milestone you ever forget. Sometimes, when I go to sleep, I can see him so clearly. It's like I'm there all over again. The smells, the sounds, the emotions – they're all indelibly etched into my memory. I remember thinking that his blood looked like garnets, liquefied and vital. My adoptive mother's engagement ring was set_ _with garnet._ _The only thing I don't know is what his name was. I don't think I ever want to know._

The blade really was very sharp. I tested it on my own skin to be sure. A rouge pearl of blood pooled in the centre of my palm. The edge was so well-honed that it had sliced into my hand in such a way that I found it hard to determine whether it had actually hurt, leaving a hole that looked like stigmata. Carefully, with the very tip of my tongue, I cleaned away the blood from my hand, tasting it, and folded away the blade of the knife, tucking it safely into the back pocket of my jeans.

Apparently, this job easier than you might think.

My palm itched as I slid my hands into the pockets of my jacket. Humans are absurdly fragile creatures – you only need apply a single pound of pressure with a knife to break the skin. That's nothing. I ignored the steady pulse of discomfort as footsteps sounded a way to my left; they were loud and the shoes sounded expensive, sending echoes of extravagance bouncing from his soles and up through the underground carpark.

I narrowed my eyes as the mark stepped into my field of vision. I exhaled through my teeth in a long stream, making a barely audible sound. He didn't see me; I wouldn't have expected him to – I'd chosen my spot with care, having explored the carpark extensively after I'd decided it would be the best location to conduct the kill. It was accessible to all, there were no cameras and – most importantly – the mark never had company when he came here.

I watched him a little longer as he followed the routine I had memorised over the past week. He crossed to his car – a new, silver BMW – and unlocked it with a flick of his keys. The indicator lights flashed. Had he looked, he would have seen me standing nonchalantly in the shadows. I knew he wouldn't look.

I retrieved the knife from my jeans, and slowly extended the blade, careful not to let it make a sound or let the blade catch the little light that managed to make its way to me. I licked my lips, going through what I would need to do in my mind first. I pictured it languidly, strangely robotic, feeling the unfamiliar hardness of my knife nestled in my right hand – not held too tight, not too soft. _I can do this, _I thought with determination.

And then I began to move.

Four long steps. I paused closing my eyes for the tiniest bit longer than a standard blink. I could feel every artery sing as hot adrenaline pounded through, setting my nerves alight, making me feel as sharp as the blade I held. My heart beat so loudly that I thought the sheer clamour of it would give me away.

Two more steps.

He had no chance. I'm a lot stronger than I look. My left arm crushed straight against his throat, holding him steady while my other hand tightened around the knife. He struggled until the blade began to prick through the fabric of his shirt. I'd threatened enough people to know they always go still at the first touch of cold metal; maybe they believe if they're immobile enough, it'll go away. I counted one heartbeat – allowing him a moment of icy terror, and giving myself time to stop thinking about what I was doing – and then pushed.

The knife slid in, easier than a child's white lie. I'd aimed low – the small of his back – right in the kidney. It was an agonising way to die; so painful in fact that usually the mark couldn't even scream. It wasn't all that quick either. Paddy had wanted him to suffer, and it had amused him to have me be the one with the knife.

The man managed a gasp as blood began to slicken my hand, running between my fingers and seeping into the material of my sweatshirt. It was hot and greasy and the smell hit my nostrils like a freight train – tangy, metallic and primal.

Hands clutched at my clothes, growing weaker and weaker. There is a very specific look that writes itself into a man's face as pain explodes through his synapses and the light begins to fade from his eyes. It's not so much a facial expression, but rather the feeling that something is being expelled, being lost. Science can't explain it. If I believed in a higher power, I'd say it was the soul separating from the body. It's ethereal, beyond expression. Actors try to emulate it in films but until the knife touches you in places you're not supposed to be touched, it isn't possible to grasp.

I released my hold on the mark's shoulder and let him fall. His body slid from the blade onto the tarmac, twitched once and then was still. Though I knew without any doubt that the man was dead, I still checked his pulse to make sure.

I crouched, hearing my knees crack and wiped my hand on the shoulder of his shirt. I sighed at the sight of blood starting to congeal under my fingernails. It was strange that – of all things – it was this fact that stood out to me. Probably should have worn gloves. Too late now.

With a gentle finger, I moved his head so that his face turned to me. I wanted to see his eyes. They looked at me from above a nose that had been squashed to one side by the impact with the tarmac. His irises were glazed, it was like looking into the murk at the bottom of a frozen puddle. One side of my mouth twitched upwards in a faint half-smile. _I did it. _I'd expected to feel more. I'd thought this first time would hit me harder somehow, but it felt like just another completed task.

After taking the mark's car keys from his flaccid hand, I popped open the trunk of his car. With my hands hooked under his armpits, I lifted him and, after a brief struggle, managed to force him into the boot. The corpse looked at me, a sad disbelieving expression etched into his face. He had brown eyes. I swallowed hard. Suddenly uncomfortable under the gaze of a man that I had just _killed_, I reached out and tentatively pushed his eyelids closed. Immediately, I slammed the trunk shut.

They wouldn't find him until he started to smell. I wouldn't like to be the person who discovered the corpse. Though the car park was cold, it wouldn't make much of a difference. Putrefaction sets in after thirty-six hours. It's never pretty. For the sake of the poor bastard who would find him, I hoped they did so before the skin started to bloat, blister and split.

The blood on the other hand was slightly harder to deal with. Though an effective place to stab someone, kidneys tend to splurt blood, since about twenty percent of what comes through your heart goes into them. As a result, I was coated in it. My clothes could be easily taken care of – removed and burnt, like always. The blood on the floor would have to be scrubbed up quickly with bleach, which I carried with me when I went on hits. It wouldn't get rid of it – the haemoglobin will still show up with Luminol, but the stain couldn't be seen by the naked eye and that was what was important right now.

Ten minutes later, I exited the parking garage with a suitcase – containing the bloody clothes – in one hand and an umbrella in the other. I'd changed into a considerably higher class outfit – a grey business suit and heels; I'd even spared a moment to apply some more makeup. I used the umbrella to shield my face from the CCTV camera I knew was across the street. I was lucky that it had been raining for the past three days. I disappeared into the crowd, unobtrusive as always.

And just like that, it was done. My first.


End file.
